


One hundred and thirty two

by Lord_Risley



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst but then yay, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Post Fall, Toast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Risley/pseuds/Lord_Risley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a starter that sort of ran away with me</p>
            </blockquote>





	One hundred and thirty two

Water, kettle, on switch, boil. Simple enough routine and one John didn't even think about anymore. He got up at the same time as he always did, regardless of whether he had a shift that day or not. Seven am, Groan at the sound of the alarm, up, shower, wash hair, dress, knock on Sherlock's door, enter after the silence and check. so far he had repeated this activity one hundred and thirty two times. One hundred and thirty two times the room was exactly as it was the day before. Neat, warm and empty. He closed the door with a small sigh and made his way to the kitchen. Slipping the stack of precariously balanced petri dishes to the side he filled the kettle from the tap, set it to boil and slid the petri dishes back across. Sherlock was very particular about these sort of things. Yes, it was apparently all fine to keep a severed head in the fridge (and above the leftover Chinese food) , but it was totally unacceptable to readjust a stack of dirty petri dishes that blocked the access to the sink.  
As the kettle boiled he fished out a clean mug for himself and Sherlock favourite chipped mug from the draining board. He had been itching to throw this thing out but Sherlock had insisted it was the perfect weight, size, feel in his hand, held the temperature, he had even tried to suggest it was environmentally friendly to keep hold of it. John smiled at the memory as he dumped out two spoonfuls of sugar into it. He was convinced Sherlock only did it to argue back but since that day the mug had been carefully guarded as if it were a precious treasure.  
He popped two slices of bread into the toaster after removing a few suspiciously green corners. Sherlock would probably disapprove of that, he seemed to find mould utterly fascinating.   
John hummed happily to himself as he moved round the kitchen in his little set routine. Two plates ready on the table, oh there goes the kettle. Two coffees on the table. "I'll have the second toast, you only steal mine anyway" He laughed and dropped the hot toast onto a plate before leaning the two slices up against each other to create a little tent. "Butter your own, lazy git". He stood and watched the toaster as his own toast slowly browned, blackened...oops...and finally popped. He sat down and smothered it thickly in butter before devouring it with regular slurps of coffee in between. Sherlock's coffee remained undrunk, his toast not touched. "Alright mate, I can't wait any longer. I'll be late for work" He placed his own dishes into the sink and nodded at the room. "I'll be back at six okay?" he waited but there was just the silence, the silence that seemed to feel heavier with every passing day.   
Mrs Hudson looked up when John started down the stairs, pausing at the front door. "I know dear" She smiled, more for reassurance than for anything else.   
"Just tell him I left the key under the mat and I'll be back at-"  
"Six" She interrupted him. "I know dear. I know. Don't you think it's time to-"  
"See you later Mrs Hudson" He interrupted back with a louder than necessary voice, before exiting quickly in a bid to avoid further conversation.  
The day went in a rather standard fashion. Boils on bums. Sore joints on the elderly. Two vomiters and child that screamed every time he even looked at her. 

He trudged back up the road, small Tesco carrier bag in hand, one pint of milk, new loaf of mould free bread, toothpaste and a chicken curry ready meal for two. Sherlock liked the mini poppadoms that came with it. he let himself in, checked under the mat and retrieved the key that had sat there for one hundred and thirty two days. He pocketed it and let himself into the flat, putting the carrier bag onto the surface. he stamped on the foot pedal of the kitchen bin, yesterdays uneaten toast mocking him from inside. John scowled at it for just a moment, because that's all he could afford himself to have, he had to believe, he just had to, What else did he have? He picked up the plate from exactly where he had left it that morning and upended it over the open bin. Nothing happened. He blinked and stupidly shook the plate. Still nothing happened...because there was nothing to bin. There were a few stray crumbs but no toast. He whirled round, plate held high defensively as though perhaps some burglar had broken in, eaten his flatmates toast and then locked the door on the way out. The coffee cup lay where it had been placed, cold coffee still inside. Nothing else was touched...nothing! He dashed through to Sherlock's room and checked it for the hundred and thirty third time...nothing.   
"God damn it" He shouted and hurled the plate at the far wall. It impacted and smashed, the sound echoing round the room as the pieces tumbled to the floor. he inhaled slowly, gathering himself. Disregarding the broken plate he pulled the door shut, clinging to the door handle a little longer than was necessary, forehead coming to rest upon the door. "I was right" He whispered to himself. "I was right"

John woke the next morning as he always did. Alarm at seven am, a grumble and finally up and into the bathroom. His pattern didn't alter, he knew his flatmate too well and screaming and jumping around the living room or refusing to get out of bed would do nothing. He made the coffee as always, he made toast "Mould free today, sorry" and laid it all out on the table. He ate, he drank, he cleared his own dishes away. Just a slight deviation, just a little, surely it won't hurt. On a lime green post it note he writes out 'I can wait' and places it by the still warm toast. When he leaves the flat on his own for the one hundred and thirty third time, it's with a smile.


End file.
